prisoner.' Then stepping across the
litter to where Wych Hazel stood, he went on--'You know, of
course, that you stand in that relation to us, Miss Kennedy?
Primrose is turnkey, and I am governor. Would you like to see
the inside of the jail?'

The 'prisoner' had stood still in grave wonderment at people
and things generally; especially at the footing Mr. Rollo
seemed to have in this house.

'Governor to a steam engine is an easier post,' she said,
throwing off her thoughts.

'I have been that'--he said, as he led her into a room on the
right of the hall.

This room took in the whole depth of the house, having windows
on three sides; low, deep windows, looking green, for the
blinds were drawn together. The ceiling was low, too; and from
floor to ceiling, everywhere except where a door or window
broke the space, the walls were lined with books. There was
here no more than up stairs evidence of needless money outlay;
the furniture was chintz covered, the table-covers were plain.
But easy chairs were plenty; the tables bore writing-materials
and drawing-materials and sewing-materials; and books lay
about, open from late handling; and a portfolio of engravings
stood in a corner. Rollo put his charge in an easy chair, and
then went from window to window throwing open the blinds. The
windows opened upon green things, trees and flowers and vines;
the air came in fresher; the rain was softly falling fast and
thick, and yet the pale light cheered up the whole place
wonderfully.

'Your windows are all shut, Rosy!' said Rollo as he went from
one to the other--'is that the way you live? You must keep them
open now I am come home!'

'It was so hot,'--said the voice of Rosy from the hall.

'Hot? that is the very reason. What are you about? Rosy!--'

He went to the door, and then from where she sat Wych Hazel
could see the prompt handling which Rosy's endeavours to put
away the disorder received. She was taken off from picking up
nails, and dismissed into the library; while Rollo himself set
diligently about gathering together his boards and rubbish.
Primrose came in smiling.

'It is better with the windows open,' she said; 'but I was so
busy this morning I believe I forgot. And father never comes
into this room till evening. How it rains! I am so glad!'

And taking a piece of work from a basket, she placed herself
near Wych Hazel and began to sew. It was a pretty home
picture, such as Wych Hazel--in her school life